The dark prince sat astride his black steed, his sable cape flowing behind him. A golden circlet bound his blond locks, his handsome face was cold with the rage of battle, and... 'And his arm looked like an eggplant,' Clary muttered to herself in exasperation.
You may be the only guy my age I've ever met who knows what bergamot is, much less that it's in Earl Grey tea.' 'Yes, well,' Jace said, with a supercilious look, 'I'm not like other guys. Besides,' he added, flipping a book off the shelf, 'at the Institute we have to take classes in basic medicinal uses for plants. It's required.' 'I figured all your classes were stuff like Slaughter 101 and Beheading for Beginners.' Jace flipped a page. 'Very funny, Fray.
My advice to young writers would be to write every day, even if it is only a few words. Get yourself on the habit of writing and it will become a lifelong one. And find a place to write where you are physically comfortable. You can't concentrate if you aren't. Ernest Hemingway could only write standing up, and Truman Capote could only write lying down!
she glanced down and saw that a glove of blood covered her lower arm from the elbow to the wrist. The arm was throbbing, stiff, and painful. 'Is this when you start tearing strips off your T-shirt to bind up my wound?' she joked. She hated the sight of blood, especially her own. 'If you wanted me to rip my clothes off, you should have just asked.' He dug into his pocket and brought out his stele. 'It would have been a lot less painful.
Clary, you're an artist, like your mother. That means you see the world in ways that other people don't. It's your gift, to see the beauty and the horror in ordinary things. It doesn't make you crazy Ђ' just different. There's nothing wrong with being different.
I know what you said! My mother would never have belonged to something like that. Some kind of-some kind of hate group.' 'It wasn't-,' Jace began, but Hodge cut him off. 'I doubt,' he said slowly, as if the words pained him, 'that she had much choice.' Clary stared. 'What are you talking about? Why wouldn't she have had a choice?' 'Because,' said Hodge, 'she was Valentine's wife.
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